Fragile
by LaylaBinx
Summary: "There are other ways to break down a pack. There are ways of bringing them to their knees without ever laying a finger on them. You just have to look for the right kind of leverage. A chink in the armor, you might say." No slash, just bromance and more pack!feels than you know what to do with. Oh, and absolutely SHAMELESS Stiles!whump. Enjoy lovelies :D
1. A Chink in the Armor

**Damn, this idea has been bothering me for about two weeks now -.-; It all started with Peter's little speech regarding injured wolves and what the other pack members do to care for it and just kinda spiraled from there. This is a slight AU from the beginning of Season 3 so Erica and Boyd are still alive, the Twins haven't become frenemies with Scott and the others, and there's no Darach nonsense yet. This is just a little different take on what could have happened instead. Hope you all like it!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing =/ **

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The forest is quiet this time of night, still and dark in the enveloping embrace of evening shadows. Save for a few bird calls and the chirping of crickets, it's absolutely silent. Even the breeze doesn't rustle the leaves on the trees or cause the blades of grass that blanket the ground to flutter as it passes by. It's a beautiful night, clear and cool with a scattering of stars and a hazy crescent hanging in the sky like an ornament. The glade in the forest seems like a painting in the silver glow of the moonlight, simple and yet ephemeral.

A lone stag wanders into the glade, hooves brushing softly over the underbrush as it walks. It walks slowly until it finds a suitable patch of foliage and lowers its head to graze. There's a brief movement off to the right, fleeting and sudden and gone a split second later. The stag stops, freezing instantly and looking up with liquid ink eyes. It can see the creature in the shadows, a dark, silvery-grey from the influx of moonlight bleeding through the canopy of trees. The stag doesn't move and neither does the other creature, they both just eye each other across the glade.

When no immediate attack comes, the stag warily takes a step backward, eyes still locked on the unmoving entity hidden in the shadows. Instincts kick in and the stag wanders back the way it came, leaving the glade behind. It recognizes a predator when it sees one, even if that predator is not in a traditional form.

And Kali is most assuredly a predator.

She watches wordlessly and still as stone as the stag wanders away. For a brief second she entertains the idea of chasing after it, bounding through the forest in and taking the animal down in a flurry of claws and teeth. The idea is dismissed almost immediately; she's here for a reason and football-tackling Bambi is not it.

They'd been in Beacon Hills for a few weeks now, watching and waiting as Deucalion planned his next move. Capturing the Betas had proved useless, a waste of time and effort. Despite their inexperience and lingering immaturity, they proved more resourceful and a hell of alot more resilient than the Alphas had anticipated. All it had taken was one brief second of distraction and they'd managed to make a break for it. Kali still doesn't know how; they should have been trapped in that bank vault until they went insane but they had somehow managed to break out. If there was one thing Kali simply couldn't stand it was to be outsmarted. She knew the female Beta had something to do with it, that little blond bitch was a lot smarter than she let on. And the bigger one, well, he was obviously the muscle they needed in order to make their escape.

Kali and Ennis had started to go after them then, intent on bringing them back though not necessarily alive and in one piece. But Deucalion had stopped them with a flippant wave of his hand, completely unperturbed that two infant werewolves had broken out of what was essentially the werewolf Alcatraz of California. He let them go with little more than a shrug and sigh and a muttered, "are all teenagers always this rebellious?"

He'd summoned Kali to him less than a week later with special instructions. He had another idea in mind for calling out Derek Hale and it didn't involve anything nearly as complicated as kidnapping his Betas. No, this plan was much simpler, much easier to pull off, and much, much more visceral. It would send the message they wanted without the complication of dealing with unpredictable and apparently masters-of-escape Betas.

He had given her a location and a time and Kali knew exactly what their plan entailed at that moment. Deucalion's instructions were simple: injure but don't kill, damage but don't destroy. That's why he was sending her in place of Ennis; they both knew that Ennis would get carried away and that the night would end with yellow police tape and a blood-stained white sheet. Kali was more suitable for the job because she had just fractionally more self-control than Ennis did. Deucalion had given her an airy smile that seemed almost ghoulish beneath his dark frames. "After all," he had told her, "we just wanted to send a message, nothing more."

Kali had taken the instructions without a word and disappeared into the forest that evening. She knew better than to question Deucalion's orders even if she thought this was another waste of time. Deucalion seemed to know something she didn't, his sightless eyes on a bigger prize than simply luring Derek Hale to their side. She didn't know what it was but she didn't ask either; she knew all too well what happened when someone challenged Deucalion and usually ended in no small amount of bloodshed. Deucalion had sent her out here for a reason and she obeyed, simple as that. There was a lot of power that came with being _the_ Alpha in a pack of Alphas and it usually boiled down to the fact that Deucalion's word was law.

"There are other ways to break down a pack," he had told her just before she left that afternoon. "There are ways of bringing them to their knees without ever laying a finger on them. You just have to look for the right kind of leverage. A chink in the armor, you might say." And here in the quiet, dark forest on the outskirts of town, that chink was driving down the road and right into their hands.

Kali hears the car approaching before she ever sees it and stands slowly, long legs unfolding gracefully as she straightens herself. Deucalion had been right with his timeline, the car was pulling around the bend almost like clock work. Humans were predictable creatures, all wide-eyed and fallen into a routine like sheep being led to the slaughter. Like sheep being led to the wolves. Kali lets a feral smile quirk her lips at the thought, tongue brushing over too-sharp teeth as the first glimmer of headlights appears in the trees. "Time for some fun, little lamb," she whispers quietly, crimson eyes locked on the solid metal frame of the car.

She walks forward slowly, tracking the movement of the vehicle with expert precision. She needs to get the angle just right; too soon and the damage won't be as severe, too late and she'll miss it all together and that is unacceptable. It's a matter of physics, really; she'd always been good at that in high school. Calculations and estimation and everything in between. If she hadn't become an Alpha, she might have gone to college and become a physicist. But this was too much fun.

She pauses several feet away from the road, watching as the car gets closer to her position and closer to the angle she needs. Gravity and momentum will take care of most of the damage but once again, the angle has to be just right in order for the plan to work at all. Injure, don't kill. Damage, don't destroy. That's why Deucalion had sent her instead of Ennis; Kali always had been the more gentle of the two.

The headlights get closer and Kali crouches low like she's preparing to pounce. Then she's running, long legs taking even longer strides, covering the distance between the forest and the road in a matter of seconds. Bare feet leave the cool dampness of the forest floor to meet the warm, rough texture of the asphalt. She turns her body even as she runs, angling her shoulder toward the larger point of driver never even sees it coming.

The impact sounds like meteor crash-landing in a pile of scrap metal, a loud crunch coupled with the bending and buckling of steel and aluminum. Kali's shoulder crashes into the driver's side, crushing the door inward and causing the driver to lose control. There's a squeal of tires, the smell of burned rubber, and then another loud screech as the vehicle swerves off the road and crashes through the guardrail.

The embankment on the other side isn't that steep but the speed and the impact of the car going through the guardrail is enough. The car flips two, three, four times, mostly side-to-side but once end-over-end, before landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the embankment.

Kali stands at the top of the hill, smiling triumphantly as the wind combs its way through her hair. The crash couldn't have been more beautiful if she tried. All a matter of physics really.

She steps to the edge of the embankment, tracing the blackened streaks from the tires with her toes as she approaches. The car is still a shattered mess at the bottom of the hill, hissing and smoking from its tumble. In a few light steps she's down the hill, skipping lightly over twisted metal and broken glass. Her footsteps are feather-soft and silent as she approaches the ruined vehicle to examine her handy work.

The driver's side door is facing upwards, the rest of the car almost completely on its side. The windows are broken, the windshield a kaleidoscope of broken safety glass that's dotted here and there with a bright streak of blood. The smell of blood is heavy in the air, not enough to be fatal but enough to ensure that the driver is in a hell of alot of pain.

Kali steps up to the side of the car, leaning against the crushed door and peering inside. The driver in still fastened in his seat belt, slumped and limp across the front seat. Kali watches him silently for a few seconds, simply marveling at her work. The boy is still breathing, albeit shallow and labored from a combination of the seat belt and the almost certain presence of broken ribs, and his heartbeat is stuttering but steady enough to convince her that he's not in danger of immediately dying while she watches. Injure but don't kill and boy, had she injured.

The boy stirs just faintly, eyes sliding open with great effort and no small amount of pain. There's blood all down one side of his face, bright and shiny in the silver shadows of the moonlight. Kali clicks her tongue softly. That gash along his hairline looks painful, along with the starburst of blood on his forehead from where he'd hit the windshield. Sad thing about these older model Jeeps, sometimes the airbags don't deploy the way they should.

The boy groans softly, a weak, wet sound in the back of his throat that's accompanied by a hissed gasp of breath. He coughs once, grimacing as a mouthful of blood mixed with saliva seeps out between his teeth. He could have some internal damage, Kali decides casually with all the care and concern of someone supposing it might rain that day.

One arm is hanging at an odd angle, surely broken in at least one place and completely useless when the boy tries to lift it. He lets out a choked, broken cry, eyes squeezing closed and blinking through the blood that coats his face. Kali can smell the pain rolling off of him, hot and razor-sharp like boiling vinegar, and she smiles in a way that could be considered apologetic.

"Poor little lamb," she coos, reaching into the opening space where the window used to be and plucking a few pieces of broken glass from the boy's hair. He seems to notice her presence then and looks up at her, eyes unfocused and oddly dilated from the head injury. "This is what happens when you run with wolves," she tells him gently, very carefully brushing her thumb over another slick streak of blood threatening to slide into his eyes. She raises her hand and licks her thumb, tasting salt and copper and fear and pain. Her eyes flash crimson and she grins at him with sharp, gleaming teeth like a creature pulled directly from a nightmare. The shock and pain and fear are too much and the boy's eyes flutter briefly before rolling back in his head, his whole body going limp and boneless once again.

Kali sighs and steps away, suddenly bored with watching the human suffer. She'd done what Deucalion asked, now it was time to let the other pieces fall into place. With one last piece of business to attend to, she turns and very carefully traces a spiral on the crushed metal of the door with her claw. This is a message after all.

Headlights flash on the road above her and she hears voices calling out. A man appears beside the broken guardrail and she can hear his gasp of surprise from where she's standing. A cell phone is out in his hand and 911 is being dialed. It's time for her to leave.

She steps up to the side of the Jeep once more, hopping up on her tiptoes to lean into the broken window and press a kiss to the unconscious boy's forehead. Her lips come away bloody. "Sleep well, little lamb," she whispers, licking the blood from her lips and casually walking away from the ruined Jeep. "The fun is just beginning."

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**Ugh...Kali. I never did like her. Sorry for the cliffhanger guys! I'll try to update again as soon as I can! :D**


	2. Bedside Vigil

**You guys, seriously, I have so much love for the epic bromance between Scott and Stiles, you have no idea! They're one of my favorite BROTPs ever (throw Derek into the mix and you have a pretty fantastic BROT3 on your hands!) Anyway, I really wanted to focus on that aspect in this chapter so there's a lot of Scott angst in here. BTW, Sheriff Stilinski, Y U NO have a name?! Ugh! It feels so formal calling him "sheriff" all the time O.o**

**Enjoy lovelies!**

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"_You know normal wolves never abandon an injured member of the pack." -Peter Hale, S3E11 (Alpha Pact)_

It's just after 10:30 when Scott gets the call. He's halfway through chapter four of _Heart of Darkness _when the screen on his phone lights up, a picture of his mother appearing above the number. Scott frowns just slightly as he reaches for the phone; there was really no reason for his mother to be calling him this late unless she was making sure he was still at the house and not out preventing supernatural havoc in the city. His mom was fully aware of what he was now, that much was certain, but that also didn't change the fact that he was a 17-year-old high school student and she would be damned if he got into the habit of sneaking out past curfew.

Scott picks up the phone off the table and swipes the screen, bringing it to rest against his shoulder as he keeps the book in one hand. "Don't worry mom," he says by way of greeting, flipping another page in the novel. "I'm not out playing Superman tonight. The Fortress of Solitude is just as impenetrable as ev-"

"Scott. Sweetheart," his mother's voice cuts him off gently and Scott feels himself freeze at her words. Not her words necessarily but the tone behind them. Her voice was soft and placating, gentle and trying to be reassuring. A nurse and mother about to deliver bad news. He knew that voice and it had never been used for anything good. It was the same voice she had used when she told him she and his father were getting a divorce. It was the same voice she used when she told him his grandfather passed away when he was in fifth grade. It's the same voice she's using now. "You need to come up to the hospital. Right now."

Scott feels his mouth go dry. There's any number of reasons his mom would be calling him and telling him to come up to the hospital and not a single one of them is good. Before he can question further, there's a very small pause before his mother speaks again. "It's Stiles."

The phone suddenly feels like lead in his hands, heavy and bulky and useless. Two words. Two innocuous little words that Scott had probably heard a thousand times in his life in any number of situations. Any situation but this one. Blood is roaring in his ears, loud and insistent like waves crashing into a beach. His mother is still speaking to him, saying his name, but he can barely hear her.

The words feel frozen in his throat, sticking in his mouth like they're covered in tar. But he gets them out somehow and his voice sounds strange in his own ears. "I'm on my way."

The phone is already in his pocket and he's in the driveway before his brain ever catches up with what his body is doing. Logically he knows he needs at least a quarter of an attention span to drive across town and get to the hospital in one piece but the entirety of his thoughts are focused on the fact that the reason he's driving to the hospital in the middle of the night because his best friend is there.

Stiles is in the hospital. Stiles is _hurt_ and in the hospital. The words repeat in his head over and over, a broken record for a painful reality. Scott pushes the thoughts aside and backs out of the driveway, guns the engine on his bike and speeds off down the street.

**OOOOO**

Scott honestly doesn't remember the ride across town, he doesn't even bother to think about it until he's pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. He feels like he should be more concerned about that but he's not; he has bigger things to worry about right now. He knows he broke the speed limit and he's pretty sure he ran at least two red lights but none of that really registers until he's jogging up the sidewalk to the sliding glass doors.

The waiting room is crowded, it's always crowded, but his mom manages to spot him out in the crowd in less than five seconds. She steps out from behind the desk, walking forward to meet him in the hallway and catching him by the arms before he can go any further.

"Mom, where is he?" Scott asks, his voice a bit shaky because the adrenaline is beginning to wane a bit now that he's had time to actually dwell on the subject for a while.

His mother keeps her hands on his his arms, her grip comforting yet firm. She's keeping him in one place, preventing him from pushing past her down the hall. "They're moving him from the ER to the ICU right now. Once he's settled they'll let you go in."

"The ER?" Scott breathes, the words feeling strange and foreign as he speaks. Emergency Room. Stiles had been in the Emergency Room… "What happened?"

His mother frowns slightly, her grip never leaving his arms. "He was in a car accident," she tells him gently. "The paramedics think he hit a deer judging by the damage." She pauses, hesitating for a second for continuing. "They said he rolled his Jeep a few times."

The floor suddenly feels like it's made out of quicksand, uneven and sucking him down. _Rolled his Jeep. Rolled his Jeep. _The image in his mind is bitter and black and his breath catches in his throat slightly. His knees buckle just a bit and Scott suddenly realizes why his mother had been holding onto him this whole time.

"Scott?" Her voice is pressing and insistent, bleeding through the rush of blood in his ears. He feels himself moving, steered in the direction of the closest chair in the hallway and plunked down onto the cushion. His mother's hands are on either side of his face and she's looking right at him, dragging him back to reality whether he wants to go or not. "Scott. Hey, look at me, kid." He manages to meet her eyes and blinks once, twice in recognition. "I need you to be strong, alright? You can't freak out on me here. If you freak out, I can't let you go in to see Stiles, understand?"

He nods shakily, heart pounding and blood rushing to his head. It takes a second, a long, agonizing second, but he takes a deep breath, getting himself back under control. His mother is watching the whole time, dark eyes glued to his face, and he finally gives her another, more controlled nod. "I'm okay," he tells her as honestly as he can.

She doesn't appear convinced but lets it slide. "'Okay' is more of a relative term," she says instead, stepping away for a second to grab a paper cup full of water and pressing into his hand. "Drink that," she tells him firmly, leaving no room for argument. "And stay right here until I tell you, okay?"

Scott nods, obedient as a child, and sits motionless in the chair. His mother watches him for a few seconds more before stepping away to check on someone else in the waiting room. It's surreal sitting there, watching the hustle and bustle of the hospital all around him but feeling like he's frozen in time. There are children crying, people talking softly, the TVs fixed to the news in the waiting room. Scott can hear absolutely everything, even the things he doesn't want to (like the pregnant woman gagging into an empty plastic trash can on the other side of the room) but it all seems to distant and far away, like wandering through a dream.

He takes out his cell phone, texting a quick message to Derek, Isaac, Allison, and everyone else he can think of to let them know what's going on. They won't be able to see Stiles if they come up, family members only and that kind of thing (his mom could weasel him into the room but not six other people including three teenage werewolves and one surly Alpha), but they needed to know regardless. Stiles is part of their Pack and Packs take care of their own…

Scott doesn't know how much time passes before his mother comes back to get him. In that time he's heard back from Allison, Lydia, and Isaac; he doesn't expect a response from Derek but he knows the Alpha recieved the message. Allison and Isaac have taken turns back and forth asking what happened?, is he alright?, what room is he in?, and onward and Lydia has asked for a complete list of his injuries (being a genius also meant Lydia probably knew just as much, if not maybe a little bit more, about the human body as his mother did). Scott doesn't have answers for any of them, he only knows what his mother told him when he walked in the door, nothing more. He feels like he's lost in the dark, nothing to see or hear for miles around. It's a very distressing feeling.

His mother appears in front of him at some point, small, warm hand touching his shoulder and pulling him out of the darkness. She smiles softly at him and nods for him to follow her down the hallway. The phone slips into his back pocket, all but forgotten as they leave the crowded waiting room. As they walk, her hand presses gently into the small of his back, keeping contact with him the whole time.

"Now you know as well as I do that it looks much worse than it is when people are hooked up to IVs and monitors," his mother tells him softly as they walk. She's preparing him, warning him for what he's about to see. It makes Scott's stomach sink to some unknown abyss. "He's going to look pretty bad for a few days while the swelling goes down," she continues, taking a turn down the hallway and coming to a closed door. "Just know that he's stable and he's going to make a full recovery." Her expression falls minutely but she recovers almost instantly. "It could have been a lot worse, Scott. He's very lucky."

The door opens and Scott feels his breath seize in his throat. 'Lucky' is the absolute last word he would use to describe the scene in front of him. Stiles is laying in the bed in the middle of the room surrounded by monitors and wires and machines that Scott doesn't know the name of. There's an IV taped to the back of his hand, a pulse oximeter hooked to one finger, and half a dozen wires snaking out of the hospital gown connected to the electrodes dotting his chest. The heart monitor is beeping softly, registering each peak and valley of Stiles's heartbeat, and there's a soft puff of air from the nasal cannula looped around his ears.

His left leg is wrapped in a cast up to the knee, adjacent arm receiving the same treatment with the accompaniment of a sling. There's a thick swath of bandages wrapped around Stiles's head, a very faint reddish stain peeking out through the bundles of white. There's gashes and lacerations all over his body, many stitched closed but some held together with little more than a butterfly bandage. The myriad of bruises that accompany the rest of the injuries make Stiles's body look like a canvas for someone playing with only blue, purple, and black paint. It's a patchwork, dusky red and nauseating yellow/green fading into different shades of eggplant and cobalt, connected here, fading there, only to connect again somewhere else.

It's a grisly sight, the number of injuries and the amount of damage that had been done, but that's not what makes Scott's stomach churn. No, it's that fact that Stiles looks _small_. In that bed, with all that machinery around him, Stiles looks small, and vulnerable, and human, more human that Scott can ever remember seeing him. Scott was implicitly aware of the fact that he was no longer technically human, that he was more of a mix, a chimera in a teenager's body. But Stiles was still human, he never let himself forget that. Stiles was human the same way Allison and Lydia and his mother were human. And that meant they were fragile.

Scott has to force himself to step past the threshold of the door and into the room. It smells like antiseptic and fresh and dried blood. _Stiles's blood. _Scott takes another step, his legs wooden and stiff.

Stiles's father is sitting by the bed, his son's limp, uninjured hand clutched between both of his and his lips pressed against the knuckles. He's clinging to his hand like a lifeline, a tether in a storm that could very easily blow all of them away. His eyes are bloodshot, staring fixedly on the unconscious boy in the bed, and he barely glances up when Scott enters the room. "Hey Scott," he greets softly, his voice hollow and slightly murmured against the back of Stiles's hand.

"Sheriff," Scott answers back with a slight tip of his head. He moves to the other side of the bed, taking a seat in the empty chair and simply watching Stiles breathe. It's a slow, slightly labored movement and Scott doesn't have to be a medical professional to know that there's probably a whole cache of injuries hidden beneath the thin hospital gown.

Scott feels his jaw set into a hard line, his teeth clenching slightly. Since the night he'd been bitten, he'd made a vow to himself to do whatever it took to keep his friends and family safe. For over a year, almost his entire focus had been Allison; he loved her, he wanted to protect her, he wanted to keep her safe. He knew she could take care of herself, she had the aim and the arrows to prove that, but it didn't change that fact that he'd devoted nearly all of his energy into keeping her out of harm's way. He'd never been worried about Stiles though; not because he didn't care but because Stiles was invincible. He was fearless, unflappable, larger than life. He was Scott's shadow, his equal, his brother. He would always come out on top because that's the only way the universe could work in Scott's book. If he was destined to embrace his newfound, supernatural life, then he could always count on Stiles to be right there in the trenches with him. Stiles wouldn't go down so long as Scott was around.

But he had. In one phone call, Scott was reminded of just how wrong his assumptions were. Just how delusional he was. Stiles was still human, Stiles was breakable, Stiles could be killed with a fraction of the force it would take to bring him or the other Pack members down. One missed step, one wrong move, and it was all over. Once again, Scott feels like the ground has suddenly shifted beneath his feet.

"I always hated that Jeep," the sheriff mutters after a few more silent seconds, pulling Scott from his reverie.

"What?"

"The brakes squealed, the engine was too loud, the inside of it always smelled like a gym locker," the sheriff continues and Scott resists the brief urge to point out that that was because Stiles kept all of his lacrosse equipment in the backseat. "It wasn't safe," he finishes finally, his eyes still glued to his son's bruised and bandaged face.

He pulls back just slightly, Stiles's hand still held fast between his own. He laughs humorlessly and shakes his head. "His mother would have killed me for letting him drive that thing. She'd call it a 'screaming metal death trap' and she'd be right." He sobers, his expression drawn and tired. "He'd come to visit me at the station before the accident. He knew it I was working late and he came by to bring me a sandwich from home." The words fade off and the sheriff scrubs a hand over his face, his eyes mostly, furiously for a second. He takes a deep breath, regaining his composure just slightly, before leaning forward and resting his forehead against the back of Stiles's hand.

"The paramedics told me they thought his Jeep had rolled at least three times based on the damage," he continues after a second, looking up with distant eyes. "They had to pry the door open to get him out."

Scott swallows thickly and takes a breath before he speaks. "Do they know what he hit?"

The sheriff shakes his head slightly. "They said it was probably a deer; they think it ran out into the road and he lost control. They didn't find a body but that doesn't mean it didn't stagger off into the woods to die after it was hit." One hand brushes over his face again, covering tired eyes and a haggard expression. "Whatever it was, it must have shot out of the trees like a cannon. The door was nearly concave when they pulled it open."

That explained why the majority of the injuries were all on Stiles's left side, that had been the point of impact. With a sinking feeling, Scott remembers the night a few weeks ago when they'd run almost headfirst into the herd of deer running down the middle of the road. It had been odd enough then, the fear and the panic in the animals as they fled like something was chasing them. But a different feeling begins to churn in Scott's stomach, this one bitter and acidic, as he wonders if the animal had been a deer at all. His jaw clenches unconsciously and he can feel the dagger-point of claws digging into his palms. He forces himself to calm down, to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He has no proof, no evidence of anything to say it wasn't a just wayward deer that just happened to run out into the road the exact moment Stiles was passing by. He's determined to find out but for now he's forced to simply accept the explanation and move on.

Scott looks across the bed to the sheriff, a man he's known since he was a child and the closest thing to a surrogate father he's known since his own dad walked out of the picture. He and Stiles had been friends since they were in first grade, inseparable and practically joined at the hip through most of their lives. They'd seen each other through good and bad, great and worse, and that wasn't about to change now. Scott was determined to keep him safe even if he had to die in the process.

"He'll be okay, sheriff," Scott tells the older man, his voice thick with more conviction that he believes. "He'll be okay."

The sheriff's eyes linger on him for a second, trying to glean something from his expression that Scott isn't aware of. Finally he offers a watery smile and nods slowly, squeezing his son's hand gently. "I know he will, son."

They sit in silence for a long time after that, neither speaking but both keeping a silent vigil over the unconscious boy in the bed. Stiles is wedged between two forces of nature, his father on one side and his best friend on the other, and he doesn't even know it. He's dead to the world, held tight in the grips of unconsciousness and medication and he's not going to be surfacing anytime soon.

When his mother appears by the door a little over a half hour later, she smiles apologetically and quietly tells them it's time to leave. The sheriff looks like he wants to protest but doesn't and Scott knows better than to even try. There's really nothing more they can do here; Stiles won't be waking up anytime soon and even if he does it won't be for more than a few minutes, possibly seconds at a time. The best thing they can do is let him rest and sleep as long as he can.

Once they're out in the hallway, the sheriff stops, pausing momentarily to compose himself. Scott sees this and follows suit, watching the older man wordlessly. The sheriff steps forward slowly, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. It's meant to be a gesture of comfort for both of them and Scott doesn't stop himself from raising his hand and clasping it on top of the sheriff's briefly in a sign of recognition. The older man offers him a small smile and nods, understanding the meaning in the simple touch, and steps away, walking toward the sliding doors of the entrance.

Scott takes a moment to stop by his mother's desk before he leaves, hugging her tightly and simply standing in her embrace for a long moment. When he steps away, she gives him a warm smile and casually combs her fingers through his hair once before ushering him on his way.

By the time he reaches the door and pulls his phone out of his pocket, he has 17 text messages, 3 missed phone calls, and 2 voicemails. Most of the texts are from a combination of Allison, Isaac, and Lydia, but there's one from Boyd, two from Erica, and one from Danny oddly enough. The missed calls are all Allison and Isaac and Scott finds that he just doesn't have the energy to call them back right now. He'll worry about it when he gets home.

He's almost to the parking lot when he sees the dark, silent figure of Derek stepping up on the sidewalk between the cars. The Alpha's eyes are dark and tumultuous and fixed directly on him. He doesn't have to say anything, Scott knows exactly why he's here. Stiles is part of his Pack and Alphas take care of their Pack members.

"Room 124," Scott tells him by way of explanation as Derek gets closer. "You're going to have to sneak past the nurses," he adds but feels foolish as soon as he says it. Derek wouldn't have to sneak past anyone; he doubts anyone in this hospital would say no to anything Derek Hale said or did.

The older man simply nods and moves to walk past him but Scott stops him briefly as he passes. He feels childish for asking this, stupid for even saying the words, but he can't help it. He can't go home until he knows Stiles is safe. "Keep an eye on him, okay?"

Derek just nods again, the request pointless and trivial because Scott knows for a fact that Derek would die for any member of his Pack. "Always," the Alpha says simply, stepping away from Scott and making his way to the door. Scott doesn't take the brush off personally; surly as he is, Derek gets even worse when one of his Pack is hurt. Now is no exception.

He knows Derek will be here the rest of the night without ever asking, the look on his face says it all. The knowledge makes it easier to leave Stiles alone in the hospital but just barely. Scott is confident enough in Derek's ability to keep Stiles safe but he's still wary about letting the other boy out of his sight if he can help it. Unfortunately he has no choice, he knows his mother will tie him up and drag him home if he doesn't leave under his own volition so to save himself the embarrassment and preserve his dignity, he gets back on his bike and drives out of the parking lot.

He knows sleep will be a useless endeavor though, that much is certain. Between Stiles lying injured and unconscious in the hospital and the creeping suspicion that's been nagging at his thoughts for close to an hour, sleep is the further possible thing from his mind. Besides, he needs to call Isaac and Allison and everyone else to fill them in on the details. It's going to be a long night...

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**So I'm thinking of playing around with some heavily drugged/loopy Stiles in the next chapter. Could be fun! =p**


	3. Consciousness is Overrated

**Hello all! Apologies for the long break in between updates, i'm in my last semester of college and working through seminar papers and finals projects so my updates may be a bit sporadic! Poor Stiles...writing him drugged up was a lot of fun though! Also, I intentionally left the female character vague so that way the reader could substitute their own canon into this. It could be Lydia or Allison or Mrs. McCall; hell, it could even be the ghost/angel of mama!Stilinski if you'd like to read it that way :D Hope you all like it!**

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_"They care for it." Peter Hale, S3E11 (Alpha Pact)_

Scott wakes up to someone patting his head. Okay, maybe _patting_ isn't the right word; more like uncoordinated swatting with the intention of patting. It's rough and a bit painful but it does the job it's intended to do and he's awake almost instantly.

"Scott," a voice mumbles from above him, hoarse and heavy with disuse. "Scottttyyyy…"

If the patting hadn't gotten his attention then that certainly would have. Scott jerks up quickly just in time to see Stiles's hand fall back to the bed where his head had been resting. The other boy smiles lazily at him, eyes half-lidded and slightly unfocused from a combination of medication and head injury.

"Stiles," Scott breathes, relief flooding his voice as a grin splits his expression. "You're awake."

"Yup," Stiles agrees with a very tiny nod of agreement. His face is still bandaged and bruised, the colors darker and more vivid against his pale skin. The bandage around his head has been changed, clean white replacing blood-stained gauze, and it looks only slightly better than it had the night before. Stiles's lip is split at one corner but he doesn't seem to notice it, smiling tiredly through it like it's not even there.

"How are you feeling?" Scott asks, pulling his chair closer to the head of the bed so Stiles doesn't have to strain his neck to look down at him. He realizes it's a stupid question, Stiles probably feels like shit if his injuries are any indication. He doesn't know the full extent but he'd heard enough to gather that Stiles had a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, a broken collarbone, a concussion, and at least three fractured ribs. Add in all the bruises, the stitches, the whiplash, and everything else that goes into flipping your car off the side of the road and the results were not pretty.

Stiles seems completely unaware of this fact and shrugs slightly with his good shoulder. "Feelin' floaty, dude. Whole world's spinny...feel like 'm on the Space Station." He makes some kind of gesture with one hand that doesn't really make any sense and lets it fall back to the bed. "Couldn't ever be an astronaut though...my head's too small…"

Scott laughs in spite of himself and shakes his head. "Man, I don't know what they're giving you in that IV but you should pass some my way; it sounds like you're having a lot of fun over there."

"Drugs are bad," Stiles asserts with all the conviction he can muster (which isn't much) and then attempts to level his eyes with Scott. It takes a few seconds but when he finally does, his gaze is unwavering. "You 'kay?"

Scott doesn't know what to say for a second, is honestly at a loss for words. Stiles was the one in the hospital bed, he was the one hooked up to all the monitors and machines and IVs. Stiles was the one who was hurt, not him, and yet he was still asking Scott if he was okay. The question is both endearing and unbelievably frustrating because he wishes for once Stiles would worry about himself. Instead of voicing all of this, Scott simply nods and lays a gentle hand on the back of Stiles's uninjured arm. "Yeah buddy, I'm good. I'm just glad you're okay, that's all."

Stiles scoffs softly, his eyes closing for a split second. "'Course 'm okay. I'm Superman."

"I thought you were Batman."

"That's on Tuesdays."

Scott just smiles and squeezes Stiles arm gently in reassurance. "Whatever you say, Clark Kent."

"Damn right."

A few seconds of silence pass between them and Scott is beginning to wonder if Stiles fell asleep on him when he hears the other boy speak up. "How long've you been here?"

Scott thinks for a few minutes because he's not exactly sure himself. The night before had been a blur of making phone calls and returning text messages and he lost track of time somewhere along the lines. His mother must have known he hadn't slept when he showed up at the hospital the next morning but she hadn't said anything, simply shoved a bottle of orange juice in his hand and nodded him back toward the room. That had been around 6:15 and it was just rounding into 8:45 now.

"About two hours or so?" He says after a second, passing a hand over his face tiredly. His eyes sting from lack of sleep but it would have been a lost cause last night anyway. "I came in and sat with your dad for a while; he was here when I got here. He left about an hour ago, he said he'd be back this afternoon though."

Stiles nods once, a confused little frown pulling at the corner of his mouth slightly. "Did I drool in my sleep?"

Scott laughs and nods. "Yeah, a lot. The nurses had to come in a change the sheets a few times."

"Gross…" Stiles mutters, head falling back against the pillow in defeat.

There's a soft knock on the door that draws both of their attention and both look up to see Isaac step through the door. The other boy hesitates for just a second until he sees that both Scott and Stiles are awake and then breaks into a grin. "Hey guys."

"Hey Isaac," Scott says with a smile, grabbing another chair from beside the wall and pulling it toward the bed.

"Hi Isaac," Stiles tries to say but the words slur halfway through and run together to form something like 'hisaac' before it's all said and done.

Isaac seems unperturbed by the butchering of his name and drops into the chair next to Scott. He settles into the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and doing his best to look casual. One foot bounces nervously below the chair, a twitch Isaac probably isn't even aware of. He doesn't do well with hospitals, not after all the crap his dad used to pull, but this time it's not him in that bed and that somehow makes it worse. Stiles is in the hospital now and it's for that reason that Isaac can bring himself to sit still in the room and not make a break for the door the second he gets a chance. Stiles is his friend, he's part of the Pack, and Isaac is willing to sacrifice much more than his personal comfort if it means looking after him.

Scott seems to notice his anxiety though and discreetly nudges his leg with his knee in a gesture that's meant to be reassuring. Isaac looks down briefly, catches the unspoken meaning behind the action, and nods to Scott gratefully. He forces his shoulders to relax and lets an easy smile cross his expression. "How're you doing, Stiles?"

Stiles weighs the question for a second before settling on a decision. "I'm super, man." He laughs quietly and winces as the movement jostles his injured ribs. "I'm Superman."

Isaac smirks and shakes his head, looking over at Scott. "I thought he was Batman."

Scott mirror's Isaac's expression and shrugs. "Nah, we've abandoned Gotham for Metropolis for a while."

"Good to know," Isaac says with a solitary nod before turning his attention back to the bed. "I got you a new lacrosse stick," he tells Stiles when the other boy manages to focus on him again. "We tried to fix you other one but it was kinda...well, destroyed in the wreck."

Stiles frowns then, confusion spreading across his expression. "Wreck? What wreck?"

Isaac frowns as well, looking at Scott with confused concern. Scott takes the lead then, having expected as much from talking to his mother. Between the concussion and the painkillers being fed into the IV hooked into Stiles's arm, memory loss was to be expected. "You were in a car accident, Stiles," Scott tells him gently, letting one hand drop onto his friend's arm again to anchor him to reality. "That's why you're in the hospital. You flipped your Jeep."

Stiles looks torn between being confused and devastated and gives in with a heavy sigh. "Aww...Shelby…"

Scott smiles faintly and squeezes his arm. He doesn't know why Stiles decided to name his Jeep Shelby, he doubts Stiles even knows why he chose that name, but he was damn proud of it and would obviously mourn its loss when it was gone. From the way Stiles's father had described it, the Jeep was totalled, pure and simple, not a chance of repair to be had.

"Don't worry, Stiles," Isaac tells him, jumping into the conversation as he understands the situation at hand. "We'll help you find a new Jeep."

"You're so cool…" Stiles tells him with a slow smile, the medication limiting his emotional responses to little more than a grey middle ground. "So did you tell the coach that I'll be…" the words fade off and Stiles's eyes flicker closed mid-sentence. He slumps slightly, head lolling to the side and body going limp.

"Stiles?" Isaac says, concern bleeding into his voice sharply.

Scott just shakes his head and drops his voice to speak softly. "It's okay, my mom told me this could happen for a few days. Here one minute, gone the next." He moves his hand from Stiles's arm and gently tucks it under the blankets, pulling the sheets up the unconscious boy's chin carefully. He can hear the slow, steady rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat matching in time with the heart monitor beside the bed and it reassures him more than he's willing to admit.

Isaac still looks a bit uncertain but he decides to take Scott's word for it. "So he's okay, then?"

Scott nods and flips off the light above the bed in one smooth motion. "Yeah, he's okay. Come on, let's get to class and let him get some rest." Isaac follows Scott's lead and the two of them step out of the room quietly, closing the door softly behind them.

**OOOOO**

Stiles is dreaming. He doesn't know about what; he can't see anything and there's nothing that indicates he's in a dream but he knows it. He can feel it. It's like being stuck in a whirlpool, a hurricane, an earthquake; he's immobilized, his body won't cooperate, he's powerless. There's a strange weightless sensation, the space between the waking world and unconsciousness, and he's floating in the middle of it aimlessly. He can't open his eyes and he can't slip into the dreamless state he'd been in earlier. He's dreaming, he can feel it.

It's not a pleasant dream; at least Stiles doesn't think it's a pleasant dream. You typically don't feel terrified in pleasant dreams and Stiles certainly felt terrified now. He doesn't know what he's terrified of, he can't see or feel anything, but he knows it's there. That fear, dark and black and pulsing like a living thing is just lingering right on the edge of his consciousness, waiting to seize him and take him down screaming. He feels like he should be running, fleeing as far away as he can, but he can't. He's paralyzed with nothing but the fear to keep him company.

There's a flash of red somewhere deep in his subconscious, fiery and burning like the heart of an inferno. It's burning brighter, growing closer, taking up everything. It's red like the neutron burst of a supernova, red like the molten center of a volcano. It's red like blood being spilled at an altar.

Stiles can feel his body tense, muscles tight and aching from previous injury, and he wants to run. So close...he's so close…

There's a hand on him now, soft and gentle and warm, fingertips stroking through his hair in slow, soothing motions. "Shh...it's okay…" a voice whispers from somewhere high above him. It's quiet and soft, feminine and familiar, and he has no idea who it is. The fingers are brushing over his scalp softly, each pass chasing away the burning crimson that's taking over his thoughts. "Go back to sleep…"

Stiles tries to fight it. He doesn't want to go back to sleep; going back to sleep will put him back in the nightmare. He tries to open his eyes, fights harder than he's ever done just to get his eyelids to crack open. He can't see anything, everything is a blur of light and a hazy, unfamiliar ceiling. Someone is standing over him, shadowy and murky with no definitive outline. He knows he should feel afraid, knows the instinct for fight or flight at the realization that a stranger is hovering over his bed should be kicking in any minute now, but he doesn't. He feels oddly...safe.

The fingers in his hair are soothing and gentle, the warmth of her hand is grounding, and she's humming softly as she strokes his hair. He doesn't recognize the song, there are no words, but he knows he's heard it before. Everything about her is so damn familiar and yet he cannot get his drug-addled brain to grasp onto her name. His eyelids feel like the weigh a ton each and he's blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. It doesn't work, everything is still a blur and he can't focus on anything.

There's some kind of muffled little noise of frustration that rumbles in his throat and the hand moves down to his face, fingertips butterfly soft against his cheek. The thumb brushes lightly across his cheekbone, up over the ridge of his eyebrow, down toward the hollow of his temple.

"Shh…" she says again, her voice velvet-soft and lullaby sweet. She's stopped humming for the moment but her hand is still on his cheek and her presence is everywhere. She's the light in the Red Sea, the port in the storm of crimson. He wants to cling to her like a child for the sheer relief she brings him.

Her hand passes over his cheek again, fingers brushing across his forehead in feather-soft touches. He can smell her perfume as her hand moves, soft and bright and beautiful. It smells like green apples and rose petals, midnight rain and spring mornings. He knows that scent but once again his mind refuses to grasp it.

Her hand moves from his face and wants to protest but then it's grasping his hand gently, the fingers splayed soft and warm across the back of his hand. He focuses on her touch, the soft weight of her hands wrapped around his. She is everything in the world and yet he cannot see her. He wants her to stay, needs her to stay, but his useless mouth refuses to cooperate and convey this message. Instead, he tightens his fingers around hers, clinging with as much strength as he's able.

Her fingers squeeze back in return, a silent understanding passing between them, and soft, soft lips brush across the back of his knuckles. "Go back to sleep," she says again, her voice barely more than a whisper.

And Stiles, because he really has no control over what his body does anymore, obeys and feels himself drift back into the dreamless embrace of sleep.

**OOOOO**

When Stiles opens his eyes again, she's gone (although he vaguely wonders if she had ever been there at all). In her place is his father, eyes tired and face drawn from fatigue but with a warm smile that's settled on him. "Welcome back, kiddo."

Stiles tries to say something in response but his mouth is still clumsy and useless from sleep so he settles on squeezing his father's hand instead. It takes a few more seconds, minutes maybe, before he's able to string together a coherent enough sentence to say it out loud. "How's work?" The words come out fuzzy and cottony around the edges, wrapped in thick layers of wool and fleece, but dammit, they're intelligible.

His father smiles and pats his hand. "Work can take care of itself. I'm more concerned with you right now." The smiles fades slightly, eyes deep with concern. "How are you feeling?"

Stiles mulls this over for a few seconds. He knows he had a conversation similar to this with Scott at some point but he doesn't remember much of that. It felt like years had passed since then. "Okay, I think?" He isn't sure and he certainly doesn't have the conviction to lean more toward either side. He settles with a happy middle ground. "I think I'm okay," he says, nodding once and wincing slightly as the room tilts harshly from the movement.

His father notices the wince and reaches out, placing a gentle hand in the middle of Stiles's forehead to help anchor him. It works remarkably well, the room ceasing it's merry-go-round adventure and settling back into a normal state. Stiles sighs softly in relief, focusing as much as he can on the familiar skin of his father's wrist and the soft, faded scent of his cologne.

After a moment, the hand withdraws and his father pats his uninjured arm lightly. "Try not to make any sudden movements for a while. The doctors said you're probably going to suffer from dizzy spells and vertigo for a week or so because of the concussion."

"Good idea," Stiles agrees, tipping his chin just slightly in the parody of a nod. The movement doesn't send him spiralling again so he deems it a success.

His father is silent for a moment, watching him intently. When he finally speaks, his voice is cautious but controlled. "Do you remember anything about the wreck?"

Stiles frowns just slightly, again remembering the years-ago conversation with Scott. He was in a wreck, that's why he's in the hospital. He'd flipped his Jeep. He'd hit something and gone off the road. The memories don't feel like his own, they feel like something he watched from the side, a casual observer of his own life.

"Not much," he says after a second, trying to wrack his brain for any details it would give up. The head injury coupled with the painkillers being fed into his IV made that attempt about as successful as nailing Jello to a tree. "I hit something, I think," he starts, adamantly ignoring the tiny, whisper-soft voice in the back of his mind that says _'or something hit me'_. "I remember hitting the guardrail but that's it."

His father nods silently, warm hand resting on his arm in a gesture that's meant to be comforting and reassuring to both of them. He looks tired, drawn too thin in too many directions, and Stiles feels a stab of guilt at the fatigue that bleeds into his father's eyes. He knows his dad doesn't get enough sleep as it is; he wonders how long it's been since he got more than three hours per night. Now, with him being in the hospital and his dad having to divide his attention between concern for his son and the stress of work, Stiles knows full well the sleepless nights will only get worse.

He's not sure if it's a side effect of the medication or the head injury or the fact that he just feels terrible but Stiles can feel the sting of tears burn behind his eyelids. He closes his eyes quickly to prevent them from falling but they're still doing their level best to seep out and dampen his eyelashes. "Dad, I'm sorry," he says quietly, squeezing his eyes closed a bit tighter as the first tear manages to break free and slide down the side of his face only to be caught in the woven fabric of a bandage on his cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Hey." His father's voice is gentle and soft, barely there and yet strong enough to break through the toughest of walls. One hand comes up, swiping away the tell-tale tear with the thumb and coming to a rest to cup his cheek. Stiles opens his eyes slowly, tears still hovering just on the edges of his lower lashes, and looks up at his father.

The older man is looking down on him, his eyes soft with concern and fathomless affection. There's no disappointment in his expression, no anger or irritation or any kind of negative emotion. There's nothing but love and reassurance and understanding. Stiles feels like crying again.

"I'm not mad at you, son," his father says gently, the hand cupping his face moving away to pass through his hair slowly. "I could never be mad at you for something like this." The smile on his face is warm, placating. "I'm just glad you're alright." The smile fades just a fraction and the hand comes to a rest against the uninjured side of Stiles's head, fingers curling slightly in his hair. "I was afraid I was going to lose you too."

Stiles feels a slight catch in his throat and leans into his father's hand as much as he can. "Not goin' anywhere, dad."

The smile returns, bright and warm as a sunbeam, and his father laughs softly. "Better not. I'll ground you for life if I have to."

Their conversation is broken when a petite blonde nurse in blue scrubs enters the room with a small smile. She introduces herself as Grace and moves over to the bed, checking Stiles's vitals and bandages with small, soft hands. She makes a few notes on the chart at the end of his bed and elevates the mattress slowly until Stiles is in a reclined position. Satisfied, she slips back out of the room, saying something about grabbing dinner for him, but by that time Stiles is drifting again and he doesn't hear much of anything after that.

When he wakes up again, it's to Grace's hand on his uninjured shoulder and a bowl of yellowish broth on the table positioned over his bed. She tells him to eat what he can and to press the button beside the bed if he needs anything. Then she smiles, pats his arm softly, and disappear out of the room again.

It takes several tries with clumsy fingers before Stiles is able to grasp the spoon well enough to lift it up from the bowl without dropping it. His arm feels heavy and wooden, the joints frozen and uncooperative, and he's never felt so helpless in all his life. He's nothing if not stubborn though and continues to work at until he's able to adequately feed himself without spilling broth all over the front of his shirt.

The broth is warm and bland, little more than hot water and chicken flavoring; it's a lot like chicken noodle soup without the chicken or the noodles. Still, it takes Stiles nearly thirty minutes to get even halfway through the bowl and by that time he's exhausted and sore. He'd bitten through the inside of his mouth at some point during the wreck and the broth irritates the wound each time he swallows. His arm becomes more and more uncooperative each time he lifts it and by the time he's done and pushed the bowl away the muscles are throbbing and aching. He feels weak and helpless, fragile as a newborn and just as uncoordinated, but the logical part of his brain realizes it's all due to his injuries and not much else. Still, it's a sucky feeling and one he's not overly fond of.

The TV is stuck on some football game and as Stiles sinks back against the mattress, he finds himself watching it with only half interest. His father is watching it with about the same amount of enthusiasm. The players begin to blur about six minutes into the second quarter and Stiles vaguely realizes it must have something to do with the spiffy little button he has next to the bed. His hand had twitched involuntarily, fingers pressing the button without his knowledge, and suddenly the world was a much happier place.

The football players seem to agree because their helmets turn into balloons and the referee begins to sound like Mickey Mouse. It's hilarious and Stiles would gladly laugh at it if his ribs would agree to the action. One of the players is wearing boxing gloves and that seems super counterintuitive to football and shockingly unfair to the other players so Stiles makes it a point to tell his father this.

The older Stilinski seems confused by the assertion but also seems to realize the meaning behind it. Smiling faintly, he stands and tucks the blankets up around Stiles's shoulders, dropping a kiss onto his son's forehead. "Bedtime for you, kiddo."

Stiles wants to point out that he thinks this is the second time he's been tucked in today but the words are only formed in his mind and the rest of the world slips away in a delirious fog.

**OOOOO**

It's past midnight; Stiles doesn't need a clock to know that. He can see a sliver of ink black sky between the blinds and the room is quiet. The halls are mostly empty save for a few night nurses and visiting hours are clearly over. That certainly doesn't mean Stiles's room is empty.

"Derek?" Stiles asks when his eyes land on the silent, shadowy figure in the corner of the room. The Alpha is sitting in one of the chairs closest to the door, his back pressed up against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him to rest just on the edge of the bed. He's hidden behind the door, facing the entrance to the room in stoic stillness. He'll see anyone who comes in the room long before they see him.

Upon hearing his name, Derek looks back over his shoulder at the injured boy in the bed. His expression is unreadable, eyes dark in the shadows of the room, but he's looking directly at Stiles. "You should be asleep," he says simply, turning his attention back toward the door.

"Kinda hard to sleep when I know you're lurking in my room," Stiles mumbles, ignoring the slur in his voice. He tries to shift into a better position and fails miserably when the world begins to spin again.

"I'm not 'lurking'," Derek retaliates somewhat defensively, rolling his shoulders back slightly at the accusation. "I'm watching."

"Nuance," Stiles mutters, trying to flippantly wave his hand but it's mostly just his wrist twitching spastically. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you, I'm watching," Derek repeats, his eyes still glued to the door.

"Watching for what? The Tooth fairy? Because I'm pretty sure you have to be asleep in order for her to sparkle into existence."

"Like you should be," Derek counters, his eyes sliding from the door to the bed, leveling Stiles with a lukewarm glare.

Stiles lets out a frustrated huff and slumps back against the mattress. "Oh, come on, Sourwolf," he says with a long sigh. His head hurts, his chest hurts, his everything hurts. The last thing he needs or wants is another verbal spar with Derek. "I'm not going anywhere. Dude, I can barely sit up on my own, much less make a break for it."

"That doesn't mean someone won't come in here and try to take you," Derek snaps, his gaze still focused on Stiles. "I'm not watching this door because I think you're going to try to escape. Hell, I'd be surprised if you made it three feet away from the bed in the condition you're in." He turns his attention away then, eyes back to the door. "I'm watching to make sure no one comes in."

Stiles frowns then, confusion giving way to something like understanding. He remembers Scott telling him how someone had tried to kidnap Isaac from the hospital a few weeks ago and how it had taken both he and Derek to prevent it from happening. The roles were switched now with Stiles being in the hospital but Derek's part remained the same. He was on watch-wolf duty and no one was coming into this room without his permission. Stiles suddenly felt sorry for Grace.

"Dude, no one is going to try to take me," Stiles begins but Derek simply shakes his head at the declaration.

"You don't know that," the Alpha counters deftly, his eyes never leaving the door. "Your wreck wasn't an accident, Stiles. We're pretty sure the Alphas caused it to get to us. They went after you because you were a vulnerable target and they're trying to draw us out." His eyes slide to Stiles again, his expression one of long-suffering patience as he continues to explain. "Just because they didn't kill you in that wreck doesn't mean they won't try to come after you again and that is not happening. Not while I'm around."

Stiles is momentarily speechless because as far as he can tell, Derek is completely serious. There's no hint of joking or teasing in his expression, nothing but absolute determination and fearlessness. Derek was worried about him. Derek Hale was_ worried_ about him. Stiles wonders if this is another side effect from the medication because he feels like he's hallucinating again.

"I'll be careful," he promises because he feels like that's really the only thing he can do at this moment. "I'll stick close to the Pack and use the buddy system from now on. The Alphas won't get near me." Stiles tries for a smile but it feels stiff and sore. "Don't be such a worry wolf."

Derek grumbles softly in his throat at the new nickname but doesn't say anything. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the chair, eyes still locked on the door but with a more relaxed posture. He'll be here for the rest of the night, Stiles has no doubt about that, and for some weird reason that actually makes him feel safe. The big, bad wolf is guarding his door and no one is coming in until Derek damn well pleases.

Stiles feels another smile tug at the corner of his mouth, his body feeling heavy and weighted with fatigue again. "Thanks, Derek."

"Go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles knows better than to disobey an order from the Alpha (_his_ Alpha as far as Pack dynamics went) so he allows his eyes to slip closed and his body to sag against the mattress. He's not worried about nightmares filled with red or the feeling of being chased. Right now, all he feels is safe.

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**Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	4. Dignity Not Required

**Hey guys! Sorry for the long delay between updates; real life and school have been keeping me pretty busy. Anyway, hope you all enjoy it! :D**

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_"They bring it food from a kill." -Peter Hale, S3E11 (Alpha Pact)_

Stiles stays in the hospital for just under a week before he's deemed healed enough to be released. The real haggle comes down to what he's taking with him. He'd managed to talk his dad out of the wheelchair but hadn't been able to avoid the crutches in its place. One or the other would be necessary for the next few weeks while his leg healed: spiral fracture in the tibia (or was it the fibula? They both sounded the same…) and a broken bone in his ankle. The crutches seemed like the lesser of two evils so he chose them over the wheelchair. It was a compromise he grudgingly accepted; he's never used crutches before but the alternative is to try and navigate a wheelchair around the halls of the school and that's just not happening. Besides, how bad can crutches be, right? He tries not to think about how he's going to use them with one arm still in a sling.

He can't work his magic to convince Mrs. McCall to let him walk out of the hospital under his own volition though. He's forced to use a wheelchair then and it's just as embarrassing and ego-crushing as he thought it would be. After having nearly everyone he knew show up at the hospital at least once during his stay and see him at his questionably coherent best, the least he could hope for was to regain an ounce of dignity and walk out through the front doors under his own power. No such luck; Scott's mom just gives him that no-argument, patient smile that makes it clear he's getting in that chair whether he wants to or not and that's that. Damn.

Stiles isn't afraid to admit that he needs his dad's help to get in the car though. He's still wobbly from being bed bound for almost a week and the process of going from sitting to standing pulls at his ribs sharp enough to make him grit his teeth in pain. His father wraps one arm around his back, steadying him and gently maneuvering him into the car. Between the broken leg and the arm in a sling, the whole left side of his body feels heavy and weighted, hanging useless and awkward. He's not exactly sure how long he has to leave them on, a couple weeks at least, but that's a concern for another day. His main concern at this moment is not toppling forward out of the front seat of the car and ending up face first in the parking lot.

The pain medication they have him on likes to induce odd moments of vertigo and dizziness, coupled with nausea on occasion, and it just figures that the minute he's leaving the hospital he starts to experience the side effects. He tries to prevent himself from falling over, fails miserably, and ends up slumping into his dad's shoulder as he works to make sure Stiles's seat belt is tight enough.

His father frowns, eyebrows knitting together in concern. "Stiles? You okay?"

Stiles manages a nod that doesn't make him dizzy and closes his eyes for a second. "I'm good, dad."

"You sure?"

"Yep." Stiles opens his eyes slowly, relieved when the dizziness fades and allows him to sit up a bit straighter. "Never better."

His father doesn't look convinced but lets the issue slide. Good thing about Stilinski men: they knew when to back off and let the other maintain at least a hint of masculine dignity. In place of further prodding, his father just combs his fingers through Stiles's hair affectionately before stepping back and closing the door carefully.

Mrs. McCall waves at them from the front doors of the hospital, making direct eye contact with his father. They'd made an agreement of some sort before Stiles had been released; something along the lines of listing herself as another emergency contact in Stiles's school record if it ever came down to it. It made sense really; Scott's mom had essentially become a surrogate mother to him after his own mother had passed away. Having her name down as an emergency contact wasn't outside the bounds of reality. Stiles vaguely wonders if it had been Scott's idea or his mom's. Maybe it was his dad's? He didn't know and as the car pulled out of the parking lot, he allowed himself to forget about the details and slump into the seat.

The ride back to the house was relatively uneventful save for a few return visits of the vertigo. Gripping the handles on the inside of the door helped with that and Stiles managed to make it home without getting car sick. An accomplishment if he was honest with himself.

With his dad's help, he manages to get into the house and sags bonelessly into the couch the second he's close enough. The short walk from the driveway to the living room had exhausted him and exertion caused both his ribs and his leg to ache sharply. His father retrieves the paper bag of prescriptions from the front seat and lays them out carefully on the dining room table. He hesitates for a second, eyeing Stiles carefully as he comes back around the corner. He's frowning deeply, eyes conflicted, and Stiles tries to give him a reassuring smile.

"Dad, it's okay. I'll be fine for a few hours. I promise." His father couldn't stay, he had to go into the station as soon as possible. With the murders still springing up all over town, they needed as much help as they could get. Still, the idea of leaving Stiles on his own so soon after leaving the hospital wasn't sitting well with him and it showed.

"Maybe I should talk to Mrs. O'Donnell and see if she can come by to check-"

"Dad," Stiles cuts him off gently. "I'll be okay. I don't plan on moving any further than I have to. I'll probably still be in this exact same position by the time you get home tonight." It was true; movement of any kind was a bit hard to control right now and with the unexpected vertigo he had suddenly developed, he really didn't plan on tempting fate anymore than necessary.

His father still doesn't look happy about leaving but there's nothing he can do. They both know it. "You call me if you need me, understand?" He says finally, sighing heavily at the helplessness of the situation. "For any reason. If you need me, you call me. Got it?"

"Got it, dad," Stiles says, once again trying for a smile. It feels tired and worn, just like he does, but there's no reason to let his dad know that.

There's a slight nod and his dad starts to turn but then stops, looking back at his son. "Don't try the stairs until I get home."

"Wasn't planning on it," Stiles tells him honestly because level floors were enough of a challenge, anything with with an incline was going to be insurmountable.

His father nods in approval and walks over to the couch, dropping a chaste kiss to the top of Stiles's head and letting his hand linger on his uninjured should for just a fraction of a second longer than he usually did. Letting Stiles out of his sight was proving more difficult than he imagined.

It takes another few minutes of coaxing but finally Stiles managed to get his father out the door and on his way. The door closes quietly behind him and Stiles is left alone in the silent house. It's eerily silent, painfully silent, and Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath (or as deep as he could with fractured ribs). He hadn't told anyone about the nightmares, the dreams of red and fire and blood. The dreams where it covers everything he sees, everything he touches, everything he is. He can't tell anyone about them because they would just think he was crazy. Because in reality, it was a bit crazy; there's nothing but the color red in his dreams, nothing chasing him, nothing but that color. Just red, red, red. Everywhere. But for some reason it's terrifying. Even seeing the color is like a sucker punch to the gut and it makes him feel cold all over. He can't explain it and he really doesn't want to; he just wants to forget.

There's a knock at the door and Stiles resists the urge to sigh. It was probably Mrs. O'Donnell from next door, coming by to check on him. She was a sweet older woman, grandmotherly and always smelling of cinnamon and vanilla, but Stiles didn't really want her concern right now. To be honest, he didn't want anything at all. He just wanted to sleep and hope like hell there were no colors to his dreams this time.

The knock comes again, more forceful this time, and Stiles frowns slightly. That couldn't be Mrs. O'Donnell; knocking that heavily would more than likely break her hand. He grabs one crutch and uses it to pull himself slowly and painfully to his feet. Standing is agony against his fractured ribs but he manages to stay upright and somewhat steady. It takes much longer than necessary to walk across the room but between hobbling on his cast and trying to avoid catching the crutch on the coffee table, it's not surprising.

Another knock, slightly louder than the second, and Stiles suddenly freezes in the middle of the living room. A cold twist of fear knots in his stomach and his hand unconsciously clenches against the crutch. What if it's not Mrs. O'Donnell on the other side of that door...what if it's someone else? He remembers the color red, burning and all consuming, and his mouth goes dry. "Oh God…" he mutters to no one in particular, swallowing thickly. He's stuck here alone, basically crippled, and without a weapon. He is so incredibly screwed it's not even funny. "Oh God...oh God…"

"Stiles, I know you're in there," a familiar voice says on the other side of the door. He knows that voice, he recognizes that voice. Stiles releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Wolf senses, kid. I can hear your heart beating."

The fear fades almost instantly but Stiles is still shaky and slightly unsteady in the middle of the room. He stumbles forward the few remaining feet and grips the door knob tightly, forcing himself to calm down. He focuses on the voice, forcing himself to remember it has nothing to do with the color red.

"Are you going to open the door or should I kick it in?" The voice asks politely, the suggestion as nonchalant as asking about the weather.

Stiles sighs again, a bit steadier this time, and manages to open the door a crack. "What are you doing here, Peter?"

The eldest Hale greets him with a lopsided grin and shrugs one shoulder. "What, I can't come check up on an injured friend? Honestly Stiles, you wound me."

Stiles grips the door handle and shuffles backward a bit to open the door a little more. "Well, I'm not exactly sure when you and I crossed into the "friend" territory so forgive me the rampant suspicion."

Peter smirks and holds up his hands. "Fair enough, you caught me. I didn't come by to check up on you, I came to pick you up." He nods to the house and then back out to the shiny black Camaro sitting by the curb. "Grab your happy pills and let's go."

Stiles frowns again, confusion adling his thoughts. "Go? Go where?"

"The flat," Peter tells him like it's the most obvious answer in the world.

"Uh yeah...thanks but no thanks," Stiles tells him, gripping the door handle a little bit tighter as he sways slightly. Balancing on crutches is a bitch. "I'd rather stay here if it's all the same."

Peter gives him a patient smile but his eyes take on a slightly harder edge. "It wasn't an offer, Stiles. And it wasn't a request. You're coming with me and I'm taking you to the flat, simple as that. Besides, you don't really have a choice in the matter; it was a Pack decision. And your dad already knows all about this. Or he should, at least, if Scott remembered to call him."

"Pack decision?" Stiles feels his eyebrows raise in surprise at this revelation. "Like, you guys had a Pack meeting about this? Why wasn't I included in this decision making process? I thought I was usually invited to those kinds of things."

"Well, you would have been if you hadn't been laid up in a hospital bed drugged to the teeth with morphine," Peter tells him casually, picking a ball of fuzz from the sleeve of his shirt and letting it float away in the breeze. "It was unanimously decided that you and your human friends are all delicate little snowflakes and need bodyguards until we can figure out a way to deal with the Alphas." Peter nods back to the house for emphasis. "So, as I said earlier, grab your happy pills and let's go."

Stiles resists the urge to slam the door in Peter's face. First, because he doesn't really have the strength or balance to slam it loudly enough for dramatic effect and second because he knows Peter will just as easily kick it in and he really doesn't want his dad to have to buy a new door on top of all the medical bills they just racked up in the hospital. Still, it doesn't prevent him from fixing Peter with as sharp a glare as he can muster. "And if I refuse?"

Peter chuckles softly to himself and gives Stiles a smile that's all wolf. "Stiles, please. You couldn't take me on your best day with an army behind you, let alone now when you're at less than half capacity and stumbling around on crutches. I could take you down faster than you could blink and there wouldn't be anything you could do about it."

There's a predatory look that flashes through Peter's eyes, brief and fleeting and then it's gone. He smiles again, a bit more human this time, and spreads his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Now I'm giving you a choice here: come with me willingly or I drag you to the car by force. I really don't want to break your other leg, kid, but I can, and I will, if it comes down to it."

Stiles swallows convulsively, his eyes locked on the eldest Hale. He knows he's not joking and he knows Peter would absolutely break his leg if he deemed it necessary. Hell, Stiles could hiccup right now and Peter would deem that as an excuse to break his leg. Bastard. With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, he finally relents and steps away from the door. "Fine," he mutters, opening the door for Peter to step inside. "But you're going to have to carry the bags. I don't really have that many hands to spare at the moment," he says, indicating both the sling and the other hand clutching the handle of the crutch under his arm.

Peter just shrugs and walks over to the table, swiping the various bottles and prescriptions into a grocery bag. "Whatever you say, princess."

Stiles once again has to resist the urge to try and throttle Peter. He knows he can't but it's still a nice thought. Instead, he shoves a faded grey hoodie into the older man's hands and fixes him with a weak glare. "Anything else I should bring? Change of clothes? Sacrificial offering? My dignity, maybe?"

"None of those will be necessary," Peter tells him with a cheerful smile. "And your dignity is the least of my concerns if you want the truth." He shoves the hoodie into the bag with the bottle and ties the top of the bag off. "Now, can we make it out to the car without anymore lip or should I settle in for a repeat performance?"

Stiles just rolls his eyes and starts hobbling toward the door, Peter in his wake. It takes several minutes to get to the car and by the time he collapses into the front seat, he's sweating and out of the breath. The gauze around his head and the tape pressed to his skin beneath his clothes feels damp and slippery from the exertion and his ribs are throbbing fiercely with each breath he takes. Peter doesn't seem at all bothered by his discomfort as he tosses the bag of medication into the back seat and slides into the driver's seat. He glances at Stiles and flashes him a toothy grin. "Seatbelt, kiddo. Remember, safety first."

Stiles can't quite rope in the groan that rumbles in his throat. "God, I hate you so much right now," he mutters but obeys, carefully pulling the seat belt across his aching ribs and buckling it. Peter just smirks and starts the car, pulling away from the curb and driving down the street.

They drive in relative silence for a few minutes before Stiles can't stand the quiet anymore. "So, mind telling me about this Pack meeting I wasn't any part of?"

Peter glances at him from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the road. "Wow, five whole minutes. I'm impressed. I think that's the longest I've ever heard you go without talking."

"Asshole."

"Naturally." The car turns onto a street leading toward the downtown district, the buildings forming a mixture of offices and retail. The sounds of a road crew filter in through the windows along with the occasional honking of horns from the busier streets. It's definitely different from the isolated, burned out house in the forest, that's for sure.

"Listen, kid, I'm going to spell it out for you," Peter says as they switch into a different lane. "The Alpha Pack isn't going to play fair. They're going to strike hard and low and try to cut our feet out from under us anyway they can. They tried that with Erica and Boyd, they tried it when they attempted to kidnap Isaac, and now they've done it with you." Peter looks over at him as if taking stock of his injuries for the first time. "They had better luck with you because you're human and therefore more vulnerable."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles mumbles, waving one hand flippantly. "I'm weak because I'm human and not a not a big bad werewolf like you guys. I've heard that line before. What does that have to do with you essentially kidnapping me?"

"Simply the fact that the next time the Alphas make their move, you may not be so lucky," Peter says simply, his voice slightly grave. "And trust me, you _were_ lucky with this last encounter. A totalled car and a few broken bones is a Godsend compared to what they could have done to you."

Stiles is silent for a second, letting the gravity of the words sink in. He knows it could have been worse, much, _much_ worse, but he tries not to dwell on that fact. If he does, he's pretty sure it will lead him right into a panic attack. "So taking me to the flat-?"

"Is for protection," Peter says with a slight nod. "Wolves can take care of themselves; humans can't. That's what the meeting was all about, pointing out the obvious and coming up with a solution."

"Which is?"

"Basically that you're not to go anywhere or do anything without one of us nearby," Peter tells him, turning off the main road and into a small alley. "That goes for all of you. Until this Alpha situation is handled, you guys are essentially stuck with werewolf bodyguards until further notice."

"Okay then," Stiles mutters, closing his eyes against another wave of vertigo that suddenly decides to make itself known. He swallows once and lets out a slow breath. "So then how did you get stuck with me? Why not pass me off to Scott? He's closer and he's not constantly on the verge of trying to rip my throat out with his teeth."

"Derek's decision," Peter says simply as the car pulls to a stop in a small parking lot the feeds out from the alley. "Whatever the Alpha says goes. By the way, if you throw up in this car it will more than likely be the last thing you ever do."

"Cheerful thought," Stiles mutters, opening his eyes and looking up at the stone building in front of the car. It was tucked between two other buildings with large windows and wide, open floors. Despite the cracked bricks and the potholed parking lot, the building looked almost modern. Definitely different from the old Hale house that used to be Pack headquarters.

"Also," Peter says as he digs around in the back seat to grab the bag of medication he's tossed back there. "Scott and Isaac have their hands full looking after Allison and Scott's mom. Boyd and Erica are keeping an eye on Lydia-"

"I don't agree with that decision," Stiles chimes in emphatically. "The last time they were 'keeping an eye on her' was when they thought she was the Kanima and were trying to kill her."

"Bygones," Peter says with a wave of his hand. "They're keeping an eye on Lydia and your father so that means you're stuck with us."

Stiles was a bit surprised they would keep his father in mind but he was grateful for it just the same. Still, this was a weird situation and one he wasn't entirely comfortable with. He's about to open his mouth to protest the matter further when Peter just holds up a hand and cuts him off.

"Don't bother bitching about it," he tells him casually, opening the door and stepping out of the car. He walks around to the other side and opens the passenger side door for Stiles. "You're part of the Pack and this is what packs do. They look after their own and keep them safe. If the Alphas want to get to you, they're going to have to go through us first. And trust me, in spite of our mutual annoyance for each other, I'm not keen on the idea of them snatching you away either. So, stay close and don't get targeted again. Got it?"

Stiles nods slowly and unbuckles his seat belt. It was the first time he'd ever heard Peter say or do anything even remotely protective around him. The indication was clear though: despite their differences, Stiles was still considered a part of his Pack and he was determined to defend him no matter what.

"Good. Now get inside before I leave you in the parking lot."

And Peter's back to being a jerk.

Getting out of the car is a bit of an adventure between his throbbing ribs and his crutch catching on a deep fissure in the pavement but Peter steadies him by one elbow and he's able to stand upright after his second try. With the eldest Hale leading the way, Stiles follows him across the uneven parking lot to the flat.

The front room is quiet and dim when they enter, the lights turned off but with enough sunlight filtering through the windows that they were unnecessary. The TV is flickering silently in the living room, the local news scrawling across the screen. The flat looks almost completely empty save for the young woman in the kitchen.

Stiles frowns when he sees her, surprised by her appearance. He knows he's never met her before but she looks familiar somehow; he just can't put his finger on it. She doesn't look up when they enter, her attention focused on slicing some kind of meat on the counter. Her dark hair hangs long and stick straight across her shoulders and even from this angle, Stiles can tell her eyes are the same color.

"I was wondering when you'd get back," she says quietly, scooping up a handful of meat and dropping it into a pot beside her. "I thought you might have gotten lost."

Peter appears beside Stiles's shoulder and drops the bag of medicine on the table. "Not lost, just stuck negotiating." He pulls up a chair and carefully pushes Stiles into it when he sees the teen swaying a bit. "Stiles, I don't believe you've met my niece," Peter says, gesturing to the girl in the kitchen. "This is Cora."

The girl turns at the sound of her name and waves at Stiles with the knife still in her hand.

Stiles frowns in confusion and shakes his head which only makes him more dizzy.

Stupid concussions. "Wait...you're niece? So, like, Derek's sister?"

"That would be it, yeah," Cora says, setting down her knife and wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She takes a few steps closer and looks Stiles up and down critically. Her dark eyes narrow just a bit. "You look terrible."

Yep, she was _definitely_ Derek's sister. "Uh yeah," Stiles mumbles, suddenly very self-conscious of the fact that he was still covered in bandages and bruises and looking like ten miles of bad road and trauma. Why couldn't he ever meet beautiful girls when he looked like a celebrity? "I've been told car accidents will do that to you."

"Mmm," Cora muses quietly before turning her attention back to Peter. "You forgot the beer, didn't you?"

Peter shakes his head and walks over to the refrigerator. "No, my darling niece, I did not forget the beer. It's in the bottom drawer." As if for emphasis, he pulls open the drawer and extracts two cans, tossing one to Cora and keeping the other for himself. "She uses her's for cooking," he explains, popping the tab on his own can. "I use mine for drinking. Cheers."

Cora ignores him and walks back over to the stove, emptying the can into the pot with the meat and going back to slicing the rest.

Peter takes a long drink from the can in his hand before setting it on the counter and leaning against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where's Derek?"

"He's still asleep," Cora says simply, scooping another handful of meat into the pot. "Long nights and no play make Derek a dull boy."

Stiles feels a twist of guilt at her words and looks down at the table. He knows he's the reason for Derek's recent all-nighters; the Alpha had kept guard over him every night he was in the hospital, never sleeping but always watching. No matter how many times he tried to talk him out of it, Derek would always be there every night after visiting hours were over.

"Don't do that," Cora says from beside the stove, barely looking up from what she was doing.

"Do what?" Stiles frowns and looks around. He hadn't been doing anything that would gain attention.

"That's guilt trip thing you're doing right now," Cora clarified, finishing up with the last of the meat and dropping it into the pot. "The late nights aren't your fault, it's Derek's decision. Trust me, he's stubborn as hell when he wants to be and there's nothing you can say or do to change that. So stop with the guilt."

Okay, so maybe it had been more noticeable than he thought. "Sorry."

"No apologizing either," Cora says, dropping her knife and the cutting board into the sink and washing her hands deftly. "Once again, not your fault. So don't apologize for it."

Peter smirks at them and grabs his beer can. "Well, I can see you two are off to a great start." He brushes past Stiles and disappears down to the hall toward his room. "Let me know when the food is ready."

Stiles suddenly realizes he's been left all alone with Derek's sister, in Derek's house, and that if this situation got any weirder, he was pretty sure his head would explode.

"Relax," Cora tells him, turning on the stove beneath the pot and adding a handful of dried herbs into the mixture. "I'm not going to bite you or anything." She looks back at him, her gaze sweeping up and down, and shrugs one shoulder in a move identical to her uncle's. "You are kind of cute though. I may have to retract my statement at some point," she mutters almost under her breath and Stiles feels a flush heat up his face beneath the bandages. Once again, why can't beautiful women talk to him when he doesn't look like he's just been tossed out of an airplane?

"So...uh," Stiles starts, clearing his throat once as his voice cracks slightly. "How long have you been here, Cora? I don't remember seeing you around like...ever."

"A few days," she answers, giving the mixture in the pot a stir before walking over to the refrigerator and snagging two bottles of water from inside. She walks over to the table, passing one of the bottles to Stiles, before sitting across from him and taking a sip from her own. "I found out Derek was still alive and tracked him down. Simple as that."

"Simple. Yeah." Stiles opens his own bottle and takes a sip. The water helps quell the residual nausea from the car ride over and he sets it on the table carefully. "Where were you before?"

"Not important," Cora tells him simply and that's that. End of conversation. No more questions, thank you. She grabs one of the pill bottles off the table and glances over it quickly. Satisfied, she rolls it across the table to him carefully. Upon his confused look, she elaborates. "You should take that. You smell like pain and it's stinking up the kitchen."

Stiles frowns and picks up the pill bottle. Sure enough, it's one of the painkillers the hospital had prescribed him. It's also the one that makes him feel like he just stumbled off a tilt-a-whirl. Still, he can't pretend his ribs aren't killing him and the headache forming behind his eyes is all sunshine and roses. He shakes out a pill from the bottle and pops it in his mouth, chasing it down with a mouthful of water. "I smell like pain?"

Cora nods, picking up the other bottles and reading their labels silently. "Yep. It's gotten stronger the longer you've been sitting here."

"And what exactly does pain smell like?" He finds himself asking, suddenly very curious about the scent of physical states of being.

"Like ozone," Cora tells him, setting one of the bottles aside. "And vinegar. It's not a good smell."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles, absently sniffing the sleeve of his shirt. He didn't smell anything other than laundry detergent.

"What did I tell you about apologizing?"

"Sor-" Stiles catches himself and clears his throat. "Uh...I mean…"

Rather than glaring like he expected her to, Cora simply smiles at him instead. It's a nice smile, quiet and reserved like the very few, rare smiles he'd seen on Derek, and it makes her look a whole lot less threatening. He doesn't feel like pushing the boundaries though.

The rest of the afternoon passes by quietly, Cora keeping him company in the kitchen (or was it the other way around?) while she worked on whatever was in the pot on the stove. Occasionally, she would pull something out of the cabinet above the stove or out of the refrigerator to add to it but for the most part she just stirred and let it simmer. They spoke quietly, careful not to wake Derek or disturb Peter in whatever he was doing, and became a bit more acquainted.

Cora told him a few stories about when she and Derek were kids and how their lives had been before the fire. Turns out, the great and mysterious Derek Hale had once been a goofy, awkward kid at some point in his life after all. Cora tells him about the pranks she and Derek used to play on Lara and how she had once put makeup all over him when he fell asleep on the couch. God, if Stiles wasn't so afraid of being murdered, this would make for great blackmail.

There was a sadness in her eyes though; one that wasn't quite as deep as Derek's and Stiles figured she had been too young to really grasp the magnitude of it when she was a child. Still, she seemed just as capable of being a deadly hunter like her brother if it came down to it.

Just after 4 o'clock, she decides the mixture in the pot has been cooking for long enough and removes it carefully. Stiles watches quietly as she adds a few last minute ingredients to it before ladling some out into a bowl and placing it on the table next to Stiles. It looks like some kind of beef stew, dark and rich and heavy, and smells amazing. Too bad the pain medication essentially killed his appetite.

"Thanks," he tells her earnestly. "It looks great. I'm not that hungry, though."

"Not really an offer," Cora tells him in response, dropping a spoon into the bowl and nudging it toward him. "Besides, my mom used to make this all the time for us when we were kids. She said it would cure anything." Her lips twitch just slightly at the memory but her determination is rock solid. "Eat."

Stiles eyes the stew again. It looks fantastic and the fact that it's homemade makes it even better but he honestly feels like he would rather jump in front of a bus than eat anything. The thought of food makes him slightly nauseous and he really doesn't think he'd ever be able to forgive himself if he threw up in front of Cora.

Noticing his continued hesitation, Cora sighs heavily and leans back against her chair. "Don't make me force-feed you, Stiles," she says quietly, her voice absolutely serious. "Because I will."

Just as Stiles had believed Peter's earlier threat of breaking his leg, he absolutely believed Cora's threat of force-feeding. And Jesus, wouldn't that be embarrassing? At least ten times worse than vomiting in front of her. "God, you Hales are a stubborn bunch," Stiles mutters with very little heat as he picks up the spoon and scoops out a small amount of the stew.

"One of our best qualities, I think," Cora says with a small smile, watching carefully as Stiles takes in a small spoonful of the stew. When his eyes widen in surprise, she grins broadly. "Good right? My mom was an amazing cook; she taught me everything I know." The smile fades just slightly but stays on her face. "Derek couldn't boil water if he tried and Peter's idea of cooking involves either a microwave or a to go menu." She stands slowly and walks over to ladle stew into two more bowls for Derek and Peter. "Probably a good thing I found them when I did. They would have starved to death in a week with the lack of food in this place."

Stiles smiles and feels himself relax just slightly against the chair. The stew is incredible, better than anything he's ever had before, and far be it from him to question the healing properties of a home cooked meal. His ribs were starting to feel a little bit better already. Besides, he likes Cora; anyone who could put up with both Peter and Derek Hale for any given amount of time had to be doing something right. Maybe being surrounded by wolves wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys! :D**


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